


fast as you can, scratch me out

by flowermasters



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Xenophobia, Dom/sub Undertones, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Hate Sex, Pegging, Post-Mount Weather, Post-Season/Series 02 AU, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, enjoy almost 7k words of pure id, i have broken the seal y'all, listen just don't think about the details, no CoL ... no praimfaiya ... just becho babey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:41:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26182099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowermasters/pseuds/flowermasters
Summary: “Save your disrespect for your council meetings in Arkadia. We don’t tolerate such here.”“Oh, believe me,” Bellamy says wryly. “I know exactly how you handle disrespect.”
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Echo
Comments: 6
Kudos: 28





	fast as you can, scratch me out

**Author's Note:**

> look. listen. someone had to do it.
> 
> this is ... so profoundly self-indulgent? just a mess of a s3 AU with absolutely no thought to the specifics. angry sub!bellamy getting rawed, echo, azgeda. this is s3-s4 era becho, baby. embrace it.

The ride to Troy is lengthy. 

It’s over eight hours from Arkadia, on shit terrain most of the way, and there’s at most one or two equally miserable others in the Rover for company. Beautiful scenery, but that’s about it. Bellamy used to resent the entire ordeal. Still does, quite often, although the importance of _keeping the peace_ has been impressed upon him many times. 

At least the long drive gives him plenty of time to think. He half resents even that.

The past several trips he’s come alone, against the advice of Kane, Clarke, and Octavia, not to mention every other sensible person in Arkadia. Clarke doesn’t even travel to Polis alone, though she’ll go with a Trikru escort. That’s still different, much different, from driving into the heart of Ice Nation territory alone—Azgeda’s distrust of outsiders is extreme, even by Grounder standards. Nothing untoward has happened to Bellamy at Azgeda’s hands, though, at least not since the truce. Not since Mount Weather. 

Still. The Polis gig must be nice.

He has to leave the Rover at the gates of the city; the streets are much too crowded to allow for it, even at dusk. Besides, the guards enjoy muttering insults at him in Trigedasleng far too much to let him carry on his merry way. It’s the same song and dance every single time, three or four guards marching him into the city like he’s a prisoner rather than an ally, hands on the hilts of their blades. 

Officially, he’s an ambassador. The word _liaison_ comes to mind, but Bellamy suppresses it, every time.

“You’d best clear out before midnight,” one of the men grunts at him as they walk. “Heard there’s a storm coming in from the north.”

Bellamy can’t gauge, based on tone or past experiences, whether this is advice or a veiled threat. But it’s bracingly cold, even through layers of wool and furs, and the terrain is shit enough without low visibility, icy patches, and snowdrifts, so he’ll take the advice. “Thanks,” he says, and the guard doesn’t acknowledge him again.

Queen Nia’s tower is not unlike the one in Polis—the eerie remnants of an old skyscraper in the middle of the city. This one looks to be in slightly better shape than the one in Polis, something Bellamy’s sure Azgeda boasts of whenever possible. Bellamy has never been above the ground floor; he’s never sure what goes on above or below him, though shouts or the clang of metal echo through the building on occasion.

The throne room where he usually meets with Nia and her advisors must be in the very center of the building, because they always pass an old elevator bank as the guards lead him through the dark, torchlit halls. Then there’s a sharp right, down a hall, and through a guarded door—which has no guard this evening.

One of Bellamy’s escorts looks around. She mutters something in Trig, and the rest of them shift their weight, hesitant.

“Oh, hell,” Bellamy mutters, and reaches out to knock on the door.

For a moment he’s certain that one of them is going to cut his hand off for the offense—they all reach for their blades—but then someone calls from within, “Enter.”

English—she must know he’s here. Somehow, Echo always knows when he’s here.

His escorts back away, and Bellamy opens the door and walks into the throne room. The door shuts behind him with a solid _thud_.

The room is as large, dimly lit, and drafty as ever, but surprisingly empty, save for Echo. Usually, he meets with Queen Nia and at least one to two of her courtiers besides Echo, plus several guards who stand around, looking menacing. Echo stands by the throne, one of her hands resting lightly on a metal arm, her gaze on the wrought iron cup she holds.

It’s not a very comfortable-looking chair, seemingly made of iron like everything else here, but that’s unsurprising given the people that built it. Azgeda has a penchant for dark, violent aesthetics that would put Trikru to shame. It is impressive, though, the back forming an imposing spiked design that nearly reaches the ceiling.

 _That isn’t the one she normally uses_ , Echo told him once, a surprising admission given Azgeda’s usual air of secrecy. _She has a wooden one upstairs._

 _No one told me I was an esteemed guest_ , he’d muttered, and watched as she rolled her eyes.

“Hi,” he says, when she says nothing. He resists the urge to wince— _hi?_ “Am I early or something? I don’t have all night. There’s a storm coming in from the north.”

“Yes, I’ve heard,” Echo says dryly, swilling whatever’s in her cup. She’s cuttingly beautiful in the torchlight, especially when she’s pretending to be above him. “Queen Nia is unable to see you tonight. You’re left with me.”

Bellamy swallows. He hates the thrill of anticipation that runs down his spine, but it does feel good. “That’s a pity,” he says, keeping his tone even. “I really look forward to my weekly chats with the queen.”

Echo narrows her eyes at him. “Don’t insult her.”

“That’s right,” Bellamy says, feigning innocence. “She’ll have my head for it.”

He likes to taunt Echo with those words as often as he gets the chance; she spoke them herself during the early days of this tentative alliance with Azgeda, half a year ago now. He’d traveled back and forth to Troy at least ten times over the span of a month, each time beset with even more demands and threats to relay to Lexa from Nia. Finally, he’d broken, hissing at her as she escorted him from the building— _is this a game to your queen? dragging me all over the place like a goddamned errand boy?_

Echo’s expression hadn’t changed, but she’d grabbed him firmly by the wrist and yanked him out of the corridor and into, as it turned out, a stairwell. _Bellamy, you fool_ , she snapped, her face inches from his. Her breath was surprisingly sweet, like she’d been chewing mint leaves. _If she_ ever _hears you say that, she’ll have your head, and I won’t be able to stop her._

 _Yeah, I’m sure it’d break your heart_ , he’d said, and then suddenly he was kissing her.

He likes to bring it up because it never fails to get a rise out of her. He’s too far away now to see whether a blush rises in her cheeks. He doesn’t miss the little moue she makes, though, one of disapproval and something reluctant—maybe amusement, although he wouldn’t dare accuse her of having a sense of humor.

“Would you like something to eat?” is all she says. She gestures to a wooden table by the fire that bears metal dishware.

Bellamy holds her gaze. “Sure,” he says, testing, letting the smirk come out in his voice rather than on his face. “I’m starving.” 

She doesn’t blink, of course, just takes a sip of her drink—wine, judging by the way her bottom lip stains dark before she licks it clean. Bellamy looks away, then realizes he broke first and goes to the table, chagrined. 

There’s a pitcher of wine and a pot of stew—beef or mutton, by the looks of it, with carrots and hunks of red potatoes. He bypasses that for now in favor of the pastries on the tray next to it—small buns filled with apple jelly, the best sweet he’s had in his entire life, let alone on the ground. They’re so good he once pocketed several for the ride home. 

He thought for a while that he’d gotten away with that unnoticed, but the apple buns have made an appearance at every visit since, so perhaps not.

Echo approaches nearly soundlessly and pours some red wine into a fresh cup for him, startlingly polite in the way she can sometimes be. “You shouldn’t eat the sweets first,” she comments. “You’ll spoil the rest.”

“I think you’re underestimating my appetite,” Bellamy says.

She gives him a dry look and he has to resist the urge to grin at her. She presents him with his wine, then leaves the table to return to her previous spot, standing to the right of the throne the way she normally would in a diplomatic meeting. The queen’s right hand—for now, her only hand. 

“So give me the spiel,” Bellamy says, tucking into his stew. Standing, of course—the Ice Nation will feed him if they must, but they don’t care much for his comfort.

 _It’s not ‘_ the _Ice Nation_ ,’ Echo had huffed at him once, as if the thought had just occurred to her while his fingers were inside her. _You should stop calling it that_.

“There’s no _spiel_ ,” Echo says. “The matter the queen needed to speak with you about has been resolved.”

Bellamy raises his eyebrows and hastily swallows a mouthful. The stew really is good. If he weren’t too proud, he’d ask for a bowl to take back with him. “So I drove eight hours for nothing?”

“No,” Echo says, dragging the word out a little, like he’s said something stupid. “There’s other matters we can discuss. How are the negotiations going with Sangedakru?”

After Azgeda, Sangedakru has proven to be the most difficult of the clans to work with—and they hate each other, almost as much as Azgeda and Trikru hate each other. Of course, there don’t seem to be any clans with which Azgeda has a _friendly_ relationship—mutually beneficial, maybe, but never friendly. The threat of violence always looms. 

Bellamy doesn’t bother asking how Echo knows about the renewed negotiations. “They’ve decided they don’t like Lexa’s demands, as well as your queen’s,” he says dryly. He takes a sip of the wine, which is pleasantly spiced, warming him from the inside out. “They also accuse Azgeda and Trikru of raiding some of their border villages.”

Echo rolls her eyes. “What could Azgeda possibly seek to steal from Sangedakru?”

“So your people _aren’t_ responsible,” Bellamy says, raising his eyebrows.

Echo drains the last of her cup. “The queen isn’t responsible,” she says. “The queen has many subjects.”

So that’s a yes. Well, good to know. Bellamy finishes off his stew, contemplates a second helping, then decides against it for now, setting his empty bowl and half-full cup on the table. He moves further into the center of the room, regrettably away from the warmth of the fire, and stands about ten feet before the throne, where he usually would if he was addressing the queen. “So,” he says, mostly to switch gears from Sangedakru. “Why couldn’t the queen make our meeting? It’s not like she didn’t know I was coming.”

“Queen Nia has other matters to attend to,” Echo says. “I’ll pass along any messages you have for her.”

“I’m sure you will,” Bellamy says. “Do you pass along everything I tell you to the queen?”

Echo blinks, and Bellamy continues, “Surely not. I mean, I’ve said some things you probably wouldn’t want her to hear.”

Filthy things, really, whispered in Echo’s ear while he fucked her in a variety of places—the stairwell, plenty of times, as well as various closets and spare rooms. Once they had sex in a room with no door, and Echo covered her own mouth when she came. He thinks about that much more often than he’d like to admit.

Echo’s eyebrows creep upwards, either in surprise or disbelief; Bellamy bites back another grin. He’s coming on a little strong, admittedly. But he’s had eight hours to think about what would probably happen when he got here, or rather, when he began to leave. _This_ , Echo waiting for him alone, feels like waking up to Christmas morning compared to what he was expecting to go through first.

But he resents this part of diplomacy, too—Echo. Her effect on him. His temper is always short these days, but it’s usually shortest the day before he leaves for Ice Nation lands, the anticipation building in him with no outlet, dread and desire in equal measure. He could sleep with some of the girls in Arkadia, or even Polis if he wanted a challenge—and maybe he ought to try. But here he is, week after week, watching Echo lick wine off her lips.

She has incredibly soft lips; they’re never chapped, no matter how brisk the cold air gets. He thinks about them when he’s not here—not just the way they look wrapped around his dick, which is compelling enough, but the way they look, generally. How they feel, how they taste. The gust of an exhalation from her mouth, mint-flavored.

“Bellamy,” she says, her tone cool. “We have matters to discuss.”

He shrugs. “I’m listening.”

She purses her lips. Her look is reproachful, and it delights him. “Don’t be juvenile,” she says. “Save your disrespect for your council meetings in Arkadia. We don’t tolerate such here.”

“Oh, believe me,” Bellamy says wryly. “I know exactly how you handle disrespect.”

 _Have you no_ sense _, Bellamy_ , she’d hissed at him after a particularly tense meeting with Nia months ago, one which he left feeling giddy and terrified in equal measure, convinced that the queen would call off the truce and the entire alliance before daybreak. Echo had grabbed him by the hair and forced him to look up at her from where he knelt before her, his knees aching on the cold, hard floor. It felt like being punished, put in his place, only that sort of thing didn’t usually make him hard. _If you ruin this—if Skaikru—yes, like that_ —

Echo looks at him for a beat, her expression difficult to parse. Her brow furrows. “Is something wrong?” she asks.

Bellamy blinks. “No. Why?”

He didn’t expect that question; of course, he and Echo rarely have time to speak in private, so there’s not much opportunity for small talk. They speak civilly for an audience—Echo is usually the only person that can be bothered to address him politely—and what happens afterwards is usually rushed, frenetic. It’s one of the redeeming qualities about this situation; he doesn’t have to think too hard about it in the moment. Afterwards, well—he makes do.

Echo shakes her head, though her gaze remains on him for a moment longer. “You seem tense. That’s all.”

“Well,” Bellamy says. “Long drive.”

Echo hums, a barely audible sound that could be either sympathetic or mocking. It makes goosebumps rise on Bellamy’s arms. Or maybe it’s just a draft.

“Why meet here?” he asks her. He has to get his digs in where he can if she insists on always being a step ahead of him. “If it’s just the two of us.”

She blinks. “This is where we always receive you,” she says, and then winces slightly. “ _Shof op_.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Bellamy says, as mildly as he can manage. Then, in the same pleasant tone, “May I approach the throne?”

Her frown deepens slightly—but in confusion, he thinks, not displeasure. She rarely shows her emotions so openly; in this room, at least, her face is always a mask. He’s giddy with the idea that he might’ve caught her on the back foot. “Yes,” she says.

He moves forward, his boots heavy on the concrete floor. At the last moment he sidesteps the throne, coming face to face with her.

“Bellamy,” she says, wary. 

“Do you hang out in here often?” he asks. “When your queen isn’t around, of course.”

Echo narrows her eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“It’s a genuine question,” he says. Only a couple feet away from her now, he can smell her, the fresh, slightly herbal scent of her hair mingling with the lived-in earthiness of the fur she wears. She must be cold all the time in this dark, drafty place.

She surprises him by answering. “When I was a child, yes,” she says, meeting his eyes evenly. She tilts her chin up slightly, though there’s no difference in their heights. It gives her sharp features a haughty cast in the firelight. “I was made to scrub the floors, sometimes.”

“As punishment?” Bellamy asks.

She shakes her head, but her gaze flicks briefly downwards to his mouth. “Duty,” she says.

She doesn’t resist when he kisses her, instead humming very softly into his mouth. Tension he hadn’t noticed she was holding seems to abate as she relaxes her posture. He sucks on her bottom lip softly and she opens her mouth, letting him in.

She clasps the back of his neck with her free hand, surprising him, and doesn’t flinch when he bats the cup out of her other hand. She does pull away slightly, though, glancing down at the remaining trickle of wine that runs out. “The floor,” she says, sounding a bit dazed.

“Not your problem anymore, remember?” Bellamy says, pulling her against him gently by her waist. His voice has already gone rough, even to his own ears. _God_ , he misses this when he’s not here; it’s like an itch, only scratching it just makes it worse, more shameful and filthy. He _hates_ it.

They kiss again, and this time when Echo pulls away, her gaze is a bit more focused—she’s recovering, perhaps, from the initial heady rush. Bellamy would rather keep chasing it. “We shouldn’t do this here,” she says. “Someone could walk in.”

“Nobody’s going to walk in, trust me,” Bellamy says. “And risk disrupting the queen?”

This close, Echo can’t hide the way her gaze flicks, ever so briefly, to the throne to her right. Bellamy feels like a predator scenting blood. “She’s not here,” Echo says. He can’t tell if she’s trying to talk herself into or out of whatever’s about to happen.

He kisses her jaw, enjoying the way the hand at the nape of his neck clenches briefly, her nails catching painfully against his skin. “Bellamy,” she says.

“Yes?” he says against her jaw. Then, on a whim, reckless abandon tugging the words out of him like a fish on a hook: “ _Ai haiplana_?”

Echo stiffens instantly, her fingers grasping his hair and tugging. “What did you say?”

 _My queen._ Forced to look her in the eyes now, Bellamy doesn’t flinch. “I think you heard me.”

She must’ve expected something else; maybe she thought he’d apologize, or more likely she thought he’d say he was joking. “You—that’s treasonous,” she says, sputtering, still gripping his hair. “I won’t be a part of it. I’ll have you thrown out.”

“Alright, sweetheart,” he says, and somehow she looks even more affronted. “I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

“Good,” she says, rather harshly, as she loosens her grip. “That will serve you best.”

She bites when she kisses him this time, roughly enough that he groans, startled. She surprises him by suckling on his lower lip afterwards, soothingly, and the combination of the ache and the tease has him herding her towards the nearest hard surface, which turns out to be the side of the throne. She inhales sharply when she bumps into it, but doesn’t protest as he starts kissing down her jaw to her neck.

“You sure you don’t want to do this here?” Bellamy asks, muttering against her neck, already trying to find the clasp of her furs. “Scared you won’t be able to keep your mind on politics anymore if you do?”

“Shut _up_ ,” she says, breathless.

“I could fuck you right here,” Bellamy says. “You could sit on my dick. Unless you’d rather sit on the throne instead?”

Echo snatches him by the hair again, roughly enough this time that he lets out a grunt of pain, and pulls his head back. “For your insolence,” she says, “I think you should sit on mine instead.”

Echo’s far less verbose than he is. That doesn’t mean she doesn’t know how to make her words count. Bellamy sucks in a breath, confused and relieved in equal measure, as she lets go of his hair. She can’t mean that literally, but the way she holds his stare indicates she’s serious. If he hadn’t spent so much time staring at her face during all these treaty meetings, searching for a hint of weakness, he might miss the brief, nervous flare of her nostrils.

“What are you talking about?” he asks. They’re still pressed chest-to-chest. She has to be able to feel him against her.

“I’ll show you,” she says evenly. “Yes or no?”

Bellamy licks his lip reflexively, but doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

She takes him by the wrist to lead him from the room, but drops the hold once they get into the corridor. She heads for the stairwell—he swallows a nervous thrill of anticipation—but then she takes him up the stairs, first one, then two, then three flights. Then they exit the stairwell and head down a long hall. It’s a breathless journey, their pace undisguisedly hurried; Bellamy is grateful when they haven’t run into anyone by the time Echo stops at a closed door.

With her bulky furs, he doesn’t see where she slips a key from, but she unlocks the door and beckons him inside quietly. She shuts and locks the door behind him, plunging them into near darkness. The embers of an old fire glow in a small, battered woodstove with a window vent in the far corner of the room.

Echo moves towards the stove, fetching kindling from a small pile in the corner. As the room brightens while she stokes the fire, Bellamy looks around, taking in the small bed, barely big enough for two, and the single wooden chair in the corner. The room smells like smoke, tree sap, and faintly of rosemary.

There’s something dark lying on the floor near the bed—Bellamy nudges it with the toe of his boot. A stray sock. “Is this your room?” he asks. 

Echo looks up from the fire and raises her eyebrows. “You could be a spy yourself with those powers of observation.”

Bellamy resists the urge to make a face at her. “I have been a spy before,” he points out, and doesn’t miss the way her expression falls slightly.

 _Don’t_ , Bellamy thinks, _don’t_.

“You wanted to show me something,” he says quickly, before the moment has a chance to linger. There doesn’t need to be any mention of the mountain tonight.

Echo’s expression hardens into something like resolve. It’s almost funny, her looking as though she’s preparing for battle when her socks are lying on the floor. “I thought you might—like it,” she says, straightening up and moving towards the bed. In a room this small, with legs as long as hers, it’s a short trip. 

She ducks down; there must be a chest or something on the floor on the other side of the bed, because he can hear her rustling with something. “Take off your furs,” she says as she does this. The offhandedness with which she gives the order makes him flush, embarrassed by his eagerness to obey. “And your boots. It’ll warm up quickly enough.”

He’s halfway through shrugging off the jacket under his fur when she rises, holding a modestly-sized dildo in one hand and a tangle of leather in the other. 

Bellamy lets out an incredulous gasp of a laugh.

“Is that—a strap-on?” he asks. “You’re serious?”

Echo tilts her chin up again. He’s beginning to recognize that gesture for what it is—defiance, a refusal to give. Not to mention an expression of superiority that he finds unaccountably compelling, even when it should infuriate him. “What can I say,” she says dryly. “It made me think of you when I saw it.”

Bellamy flushes. So she may have taken _him_ literally, then, the time he asked her to put a finger in him while she blew him. _Just fuck me with it a little_. He hasn’t thought about that moment in the weeks since—has buried it deep, the way he does with anything he doesn’t have the time or the patience to handle right away, or ever—but the memory rises readily to the surface now.

“Yeah?” he says, licking his lip again. His mouth feels suddenly dry. “You’ve never used that before, then?”

Echo raises her eyebrows. “Would you like it if I had?”

Bellamy swallows. He’s surprised to find that the answer is no. He likes the idea that he might be first—and, weirdly, that she _thought_ of him. That she thinks about doing things to him. 

It’s hard to get a read on Echo, in or out of a council meeting. She plays her cards close to the chest. Even still, he’s always assumed she gets the same thing out of this that he does: meaningless, satisfying sex. But this—effort, forethought—is something different.

Echo watches him, her expression easing into something more relaxed, confident. “Would you like me to use it on you?” she asks. Then: “Tell me.”

“Yes,” Bellamy says.

Even Echo can’t hide the pleased twitch of her mouth. “Get on the bed,” she says. “Take off your clothes.”

Bellamy opens his mouth automatically to give a retort about the order of operations here, but Echo shakes the leather harness in her hand very slightly. It rattles like a horse’s bridle, or a leash. Bellamy starts fumbling out of his clothes on the way to the bed.

It’s strangely comfortable, unclothing in front of her—aside from the lingering chill in the air, although even that is fading now. She’s seen him in almost as little, after all, and in much worse positions. “Hands and knees next,” she says, nodding at the bed.

“You sure know how to make a guy feel special,” Bellamy says dryly as he unbuckles his belt.

The look Echo gives him is laser-pointed. “You don’t want me to make you feel special,” she says. “Or you think you don’t.”

Bellamy flushes, then unzips his pants. “I’d rather you do almost anything except talk in riddles.”

“Then get on the bed,” Echo says thinly.

He does, once he’s completely undressed, and stays there feeling hotly embarrassed, prickling all over with heat that has little to do with the warmth of the fire. The fur covering Echo’s bed is soft, warm, well-used. Her mattress is squishy, as though it’s made out of wool. The smell of her is slightly more intense here—her hair, her body.

This really is the most vulnerable position. He’s never been in it before, at least not like this. Not _for_ this.

Echo rustles around beside the bed, not paying attention to him; he can see the chest he’d suspected was there, a small, battered wooden thing hiding on the floor. The room is too shadowy for him to see the contents of the chest from where he kneels. He’s strangely curious about what she keeps in there—what possessions, if any, someone like Echo keeps close. 

She pulls a vial from the chest and he flushes somehow hotter, realizing what it must be. He still can’t quite believe this is really happening, that he’s agreeing to it. He’s never considered anything like it before. Then Echo straightens up and walks out of his line of sight, her boots making no noise on the hard floor. 

Bellamy starts to turn his head to keep an eye on her, but she’s quick—there are suddenly cool, calloused hands on his bare hips, forcibly tugging him backwards towards the foot of the bed. He makes a startled noise; somehow he hadn’t expected her to be so strong. The skin of his knees stings a bit from the friction against the furs. He feels like he might combust and she hasn’t even done anything to him. 

“Okay?” Echo says, surprising him.

“Yeah,” Bellamy says, as briskly as he can manage. It comes out sharp, almost rude. “I can handle it, trust me.”

“I’m sure,” she muses. Her hands are still resting on his hips, cool against overheated flesh. “I can’t decide whether it would be kinder to treat you the way you want to be treated.”

“Just— _do_ something,” Bellamy says, “for the love of—”

She moves her hands, but not before pinching his right hipbone. There’s not enough meat there for the pinch to hurt, so the gesture feels almost affectionate rather than punitive. He half wishes it had been a slap instead. “Hush,” she chides. “You’ll get yours.”

She runs her hands up his spine, then outwards in circular motions over his upper back—half a caress, half a gentle massage. Bellamy shivers despite himself. He hasn’t been touched like this in a long time—if ever, in this context—and it’s jarring.

“You’re tense,” Echo says, as mildly as though she were commenting on the weather. “It _has_ been a long day.”

Bellamy opens his mouth to speak— _yeah, no shit,_ or maybe _aren’t they all?_ —then sucks in a breath instead when her hands move down his back, down to his ass, squeezing lightly. He feels a momentary thrill of something—panic, excitement, indistinguishable—and she must feel him tense, because she says, “We don’t have to.”

“Stop _fucking_ around, Echo,” Bellamy says, wishing he could bury his face in the furs, wishing she would just push his face there and be done with it. “I can take it. I—”

  
“Yes?” Echo says. He can hear it in her voice, that same cool, icy superiority from the throne room. It has to be calculated, in a moment like this. She has to know what it does to him. 

“I want it,” Bellamy says. “Goddamn it.” 

“Good,” Echo says, only now there’s a hint of relish in her voice. Bellamy could care less whether it’s real or put-on, but it sounds genuine. Desirous.

She lets go of him, and when her hands return, the fingers on her right hand are slick. He doesn’t dare ask her whether she knows what she’s doing, although he probably should—but he wouldn’t care one way or the other. She works first one finger into him, then two, and patiently rubs his back when he tenses and squirms, adjusting, unsure.

“Has anyone ever done this to you?” she asks.

The words come sluggishly. “Fucked me?” he asks. “No.”

“Hmm,” Echo muses. “I wonder if your friends in Arkadia will be able to tell when you return. What I’ve been doing to you.”

Bellamy huffs an incredulous laugh, then gasps when Echo curls her fingers. “Does anyone know?” Echo asks, her voice low. “That you come here for this. For me.”

“I don’t— _fuck_. I don’t.”

“You’re a bad liar,” Echo says, and twists her fingers, meanly this time.

Bellamy bites his lip hard, but he can’t help but rock his hips, chasing the feeling. “Okay, alright, you can—you can do it now—”

Echo hums, then withdraws her fingers. He feels a hand near his left calf, plucking something from the bed—the harness. He twists his head as best he can to look over his shoulder without shifting positions. She hasn’t even shed her fur coat; he wonders if she’s sweating under it. It’s so warm now. “You’re not going to stay dressed, are you?” he asks.

To his surprise, she presses her lips together thinly like she’s suppressing a smile. “Eyes forward,” she says, no-nonsense.

Bellamy rolls his eyes but obeys. It’s a little bit easier clearly to think when she’s not touching him. “Sorry, your highness,” he says, unable to resist. 

There’s a half-breath’s pause, then her hand is on the back of his neck—barely even gripping him, but somehow the threat is implicit. “I said,” Echo says lowly, “enough of that.”

Bellamy swallows. “Yes,” he says. “Sorry.”

She lets him go. He hears the soft rustle of her clothing, then the clasp of the snaps on the harness. The movements are so quiet and efficient that he remembers, not for the first time this evening, that Echo is a trained killer. A snake in the grass, though not completely coldblooded.

Taking the dildo is actually not that difficult; it’s not overlarge, thankfully, although it is bigger than a couple of Echo’s slender fingers. All Bellamy does is kneel there, breathing in and out through his nose, until he feels the bony jut of Echo’s pelvis against him. He moans a little at that, and at the fullness, and perhaps a little bit in disbelief.

“Okay?” Echo says. She sounds a little short of breath. One of her hands rests lightly on the small of Bellamy’s back, a tethering point.

Bellamy swallows. “I told you,” he says. His voice is ragged—it can’t be helped. “I can take it. Whatever you’ve got.”

“I’m sure you can,” Echo says, and then she starts moving, a subtle, steady grind. Almost gentle. It’s maddening. “I was a little surprised when you agreed to this. But you need it.”

Bellamy flushes. “I didn’t even _know_ —”

Echo gives him a little spank—not even enough to hurt, but enough to make him tense up, startled, and then moan pathetically at how that feels, like lightning up his spine. “You needed anything,” she says.

Bellamy doesn’t try to argue that point. Part of him rebels against the idea, but the rest of him—kneeling here, spread open, letting this happen—is aware that she’s hit the nail on the head. He does _need_ something. A break from the endless bullshit, the politics, the constant, simmering _rage_. He’s so angry all the time. So tired. He doesn’t sleep well.

“Bellamy,” Echo says, not unkindly. Her hand is still on his back. “Relax.”

He obeys, and she rewards him—at least, it feels like a reward—when she picks up the pace finally, building a rhythm. Her touch is still unexpectedly kind; the weight of her palm on his back feels almost tender. She has a callous on her thumb. 

“Harder,” Bellamy grits out. “C’mon, put your fucking back into it, do it.”

Echo obliges him, snapping her hips; he moans, half-delirious. “Hush,” she says, breathless, practically a growl. “You’ll wake the city.”

“Fuck,” Bellamy says. “Echo, just—”

He’s not sure what exactly he wants to say. He could taunt her again, but he thinks he might mean it too much this time, if he bit off the words _ai haiplana_ into her sheets. The words _punish me_ are on his tongue, too, but he can’t say that, not even to her.

Maybe she understands anyway, because when he drops down to press his face in the blanket, she holds him there, applying pressure on his back while she fucks him roughly. But instead of saying anything cruel, she murmurs, “Good, that’s good. Good boy.”

It’s somehow the best and the worst thing she could’ve ever said; he feels undone by it, delirious, like he’s passed some point of no return. He comes a few moments later, hand on himself, Echo murmuring another _good boy_ as he clenches around the dick in him, helpless. 

She holds still for a moment, seemingly letting him recover, before she pulls out—a little bit too quickly, unpracticed. He groans.

It takes him a moment to remember how to move; he feels loose-limbed, rode hard and put away wet. He turns over onto his back, grimacing when the fur blanket sticks to his damp skin.

Echo stands at the foot of the bed, watching him, one of her hands fidgeting with a clasp of the harness. She’s lean but strong, with more meat on her bones now than he remembers from the last time he saw her unclothed. She’s flushed, the hair at her temples dark with sweat, her expression—uncertain.

Bellamy licks his lips. “Come here,” he rasps.

It’s graceless—she kneels over his face, doing most of the work herself, coming once then twice on his tongue. Then she practically fumbles off, seemingly as weak-kneed as he is, and lies on her side next to him. The bed isn’t really large enough for two people to lie together without touching; he can feel the rise and fall of her breasts against his arm, the faint huff of her breath ghosting over his shoulder.

“Was that—good?” Echo asks after a moment, her tone as neutral as can be.

Bellamy should laugh at her, but he can’t manage more than a huff. He’s worn out, but at least it’s all he can feel, a sleepy heaviness. Sweat cools on his skin, a pleasant relief from the heat of the fire. “Yeah,” he says. “You—win bragging rights, I guess.”

Echo pauses. “Was it what you needed?”

“Yeah,” Bellamy says, tired, unconcerned for once. “Just—give me a second, okay. Just a second.”

“Okay,” Echo says softly, and that’s the last thing he remembers for a while.

He wakes slowly, soothed by pleasant warmth and the low crackle of a fire, and then all at once when he realizes—remembers—that he’s naked. Echo is sitting on the edge of the bed, her back smooth and pale in the low light. Her movements must’ve woken him up.

Bellamy blinks, trying to pull himself up from the fog of deep sleep. He’s thirsty, but he left his canteen in the Rover. “What time is it?” he rasps.

Echo looks over her shoulder, seemingly unsurprised that he’s awake. She seems too alert to have just awoken herself. “No moon tonight,” she says. “Too cloudy. It’s been a few hours.”

Bellamy licks his lips with a dry tongue. “The storm,” he says, as this dawns on him. “Has it hit yet?”

“Not yet,” Echo says, her expression thoughtful. “But the wind is getting worse. I don’t know if you’ll beat it.” 

Bellamy forces his sluggish limbs to move, propelling himself upwards into a seated position. “I have to beat it,” he says.

He gets up from the bed, not bothering to expend energy on modesty as he grabs his clothes. There’s no point in it, anyways, not after what Echo just did to him. He needs a drink of water and a shower, but he doesn’t feel terrible. He shouldn’t have slept, although at least it’ll be easier to stay awake on the drive. 

“You don’t have to,” Echo says from behind him.

Bellamy glances over his shoulder as he fastens his belt. To his surprise, Echo’s still sitting on the bed, unclothed, though she’s turned her body slightly as she watches him. Her jaw is set.

“What, stay here?” he says.

“You’d be safer in the city,” she says. “It’s dangerous, traveling in winter storms.” 

“Which is why I need to beat it,” he says.

He’s surprised to admit that the offer is tempting—or it would be, if he knew how long he could expect the snowstorm to last, and if he knew the terrain wouldn’t be untraversable afterwards. A night here, though—with a warm bed, a bath if he could swing it, and more food from wherever Echo procures it from—wouldn’t be unbearable, though. He doubts Ice Nation lands will ever feel safe, but he’s safe with her, at least. To a point.

Echo blinks, just once, then nods. “As you wish.”

She gets up, too, and dresses swiftly, nearly outpacing him. She clearly plans to walk him back to the gates as she normally does, though surely she could still find him an escort at this hour and go back to bed. 

Perhaps she doesn’t trust her own people—or, more likely, she doesn’t trust him. Or maybe she likes the walk, or the company.

They pass a few skulking armed guards in the corridors on their way out of the tower; Bellamy carefully avoids eye contact, but nobody stops them. Echo takes a torch from the wall before they leave, but it nearly gutters once they step outside. Snow is already softly falling, and the temperature has dropped to a truly bitter low. As sore as he is from an entire day cooped up in the Rover and then from an unexpected fucking, the cold and the need for no delay has Bellamy nearly outstripping Echo as they walk. 

In the dark and relatively empty streets of Troy, it’s hard to believe what he’s been doing, even with Echo at his side. What happened inside the tower, in Echo’s room—it feels as distant as Arkadia does right now. He thinks he’ll find it hard to forget, though, once he’s actually back. More than anything, he can’t believe he fell asleep. 

The Rover sits quiet and snow-dusted just outside the city gates. Bellamy is as relieved as ever to see the vehicle in the same condition he left it in; though the Grounders have no technological expertise, his only mode of transportation wouldn’t be hard to tamper with, stranding him here or in the middle of nowhere. 

Echo pulls up short as Bellamy heads for the driver’s side door, lingering by the hood. Bellamy glances back at her, his hand resting on the frosty door handle, fingers numb from the cold. He has the weirdest urge to thank her, but bites his tongue. That would be giving away far too much.

The wan torchlight illuminates her alert expression enough to remind him that she probably already knows, anyway. She’s always a step ahead. “Await my message,” Echo says, customarily. Then: “Be well, Bellamy.”

Bellamy nods, feeling strangely held by her gaze. They don’t normally linger over this, nor do they exchange farewells. He has hours ahead of him to contemplate why they have tonight, and days after that until he’s summoned again. 

“I will,” he answers, to both her commands, before he opens the door. 

She doesn’t turn away until the Rover pulls off, returning to her place as he does to his.


End file.
